


Good, Bad, Weird

by Qayin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:47:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28867236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qayin/pseuds/Qayin
Summary: A list of all the people who have fucked Stiles Stilinski.
Relationships: Brunski/Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Donovan Donati/Stiles Stilinski, Lydia Martin/Stiles Stilinski, Matt Daehler/Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski/Malia Tate, Theo Raeken/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 22
Kudos: 161





	1. Matt

Matt Daehler is a weird guy. Stiles is pretty convinced he’s evil, but he can’t quite decide why. Matt doesn’t  _ do _ anything wrong, per se, and that’s the issue. Because Matt is okay-ish at lacrosse, and he likes comic books - Marvel over DC, but that doesn’t necessarily mean evil. Even Stiles has to admit Spiderman is pretty cool. Matt had always been into art, and took up photography when they started high school. It’s not a crime. 

It’s not wrong. And yet it is. Because Matt sometimes turns that camera towards Stiles when he thinks he isn’t looking, and it makes Stiles’ skin crawl at the attention. 

And Stiles sees the camera turn towards other people too, and there’s this intense look of concentration in Matt’s face that he doesn’t like. He sees Matt take a lot of pictures of Allison, but both Allison and Scott appear oblivious to it. It’s like no one sees except Stiles, and it’s frustrating. 

Unfortunately, Stiles has never been good at ignoring things that puzzle him. 

Which is why he’s ended up in this awkward situation, trapped in the locker room, after dark - which, okay, have become a thing that happens in Stiles’ life more and more often lately - with Matt’s camera in his hands and Matt painfully aware that Stiles have caught what must be like hundreds of pictures of Allison and Stiles stored in the camera’s memory card. And some of these are definitely taken from outside windows. 

“Do you like them?” Matt asks slowly. He sounds tight, like a coil wrapped up to the breaking point. Stiles looks from the picture of him sitting in his own backyard in swim trunks while his dad barbecues hotdogs up at Matt and tries to keep his face as neutral as possible. 

“Yeah,” he says and nods. “Yeah, these are great.” 

Matt smiles, but it’s not the usual, charming grins he pulls off so flawlessly. It’s actually cold and doesn’t reach his eyes. Matt steps closer and Stiles forces himself to remain seated on the bench. “I have more on my laptop; if you want I can show you.” 

“I’m good,” Stiles says and carefully puts the camera down next to him. “I have to go home now.” 

But before he can stand up Matt grabs his shoulder and the grip is hard enough to say  _ stay still you little shit.  _ Stiles winces and stares off into the lockers on the opposite side. 

“You know what I like about you, Stiles?” Matt says and squeezes his shoulder. It’s almost like a massage, except that it obviously isn’t. Stiles shakes his head. “It’s that you’re smart. But you’re so fucking impulsive, too.” 

Stiles knows. It’s not like anything Matt is saying is news to him. His dad’s been sighing about it for years. But it doesn’t feel good to be called out like this, and especially by Matt. Matt sighs like the whole thing is regrettable and like he feels sorry for Stiles smart but impulsive actions. 

“It’s just,” Matt says slowly, his hand like claws digging into Stiles shoulder, “that anything could happen with you. Whatever random thought that popped into your head.

“You just have so bad impulse control,” Matt says and juts his hips out against Stiles’ face, and there is definitely a tent in his trousers. Stiles drags his eyes away from the locker, to Matt’s clothed dick, and then up to Matt’s face. Matt smiles and crooks his head, and jerks his hips again as he watches him. “Isn’t that right, Stiles?” 

Stiles looks down again, at Matt’s crotch and licks his lips. Matt squeezes his shoulder so it hurts, and Stiles reaches out and carefully pulls the zipper down. He loops his hand down into Matt’s underwear and springs his hard dick free. Matt does not ease up on his grip. 

Precum is already leaking from Matt’s dick and Stiles observes it with the same morbid dread and curiosity he gives to the crime scene photos he’s definitely not supposed to see through his dad. 

Both of them are silent. Matt’s grip is a steady, painful weight against him. Then Stiles leans forth, opens his mouth and takes the head of Matt’s dick into his mouth. 

The taste is kind of bitter, and it quickly becomes slimy. It’s perhaps not a good taste, but it’s actually not that bad either - not like he thought it would be. Stiles had kind of imagined that Matt would start to move his hips, maybe grab his hair and shove his head down as much as he could, but he doesn’t do that. He just grips Stiles’ shoulder tightly and lets Stiles bob his head up and down the shaft. 

So Stiles hollows his cheeks and takes as much as he can of Matt, and he closes his eyes and just thinks about random stuff. A porno he saw a few weeks ago, what he should eat when he comes home, a tongue-twister his mom had taught him as a kid. 

_ Betty Botter bought some butter, but she said the butter’s bitter. If I put it in my batter, it will make my batter bitter. But a bit of better butter will make my batter better. So ‘twas better Betty Botter bought a bit of better butter. _

Matt comes and jerks his dick out, so some of his sperm comes in Stiles’ mouth, and some shoot over his face. A string of saliva runs from Stiles’ mouth to Matt’s dick and cum dribbles down Stiles chin. Matt stares down at him, then reaches down and grabs his camera. 

Stiles stares into the camera, keeps his lips parted, doesn’t try to wipe away the cum. Matt takes a picture, then releases Stiles’ shoulder, tucks himself into his trousers, and leaves without another word. 

Stiles licks his lips, feeling the salty, weird taste of sperm all over his mouth and wipes his face with the sleeve of his shirt before he too leaves the locker room. 

  
  



	2. Brunski

Eichen House is cold - or maybe it’s just Stiles that is cold. Maybe it’s the nogitsune inside of him, or the memories of all the people it has hurt that keeps him cold. Maybe Stiles will never stop being cold now. But it’s distracting, and he’s tired, and yesterday he saw a guy kill himself. 

The wrapped man is following him.

But he’s also found the basement - the real basement he _knew_ he had been in on that night, and he needs to get down there. He needs Brunski’s keys. 

Perhaps it’s not the kindest idea he’s ever had, using Oliver as a distraction, but when Malia slips the cold keys into his hand he finds that he really doesn’t care. There’s something hard in his stomach that tells him that he’d toss Oliver under the bus a thousand times if it got him what he wanted. Stiles isn’t sure if this a new development for him, or something that’s always been there hidden deep in his bones, waiting to hatch. 

“I thought this guy had the key to everything,” he mutters as he tries one key after the other. None of them fit. 

“I do, but nobody has the key to that room.” Brunski says behind him, then jabs his face into the door. 

Fuck.

“Now, how did you get these, Stilinski?” Brunski said and wrestled the key-chain from Stiles’ hands. 

“Found it in a kinder egg.” 

“You know, those are considered a choking hazard,” Brunski said and started searching his pockets. 

“Yeah, but when I’m twenty-one I can get a gun, so I’m not sure we’re regulating the right things in this country.” 

Brunski snorted, then pulled out the amphetamine from his pocket. “What about these then?” 

“The vending machine.” 

“I love the sarcastic ones,” Brunski says, and Stiles grows still. That cold feeling his stomach settled uncomfortably, but at the same time a calm flushed over him. Brunski had a dark inside him, and Stiles knew darkness. He was basically all darkness now. Brunski twisted him about harshly but kept him against the door. “Okay, to the padding cells little man.” 

“I’ll blow you if you let me go.” Stiles said. In his chest the void churned. Brunski raised an eyebrow and looked him over. Stiles tilted his head and nodded to the amphetamine in Brunski’s grip. “But I need those.” 

“You think I’m going to let you go, after you’ve stolen my keys and I have found contraband drugs on you?” 

Stiles looked him over and swallowed. 

“Yeah,” he said shakily, “because you love the sarcastic ones.” 

Brunski’s eyes travelled over him and he jerked his head towards the corridor. “And what’s to say I don’t love to shove them into the little padded cells where they belong and listen to them rave about how much they need their contraband?” 

“You probably do love that,” Stiles said slowly. He glanced down Brunski’s crotch meaningfully. “Probably turns you on, big guy like you, likes pushing people about.

“But you don’t get to fuck ‘em. You get stuck with your hand.” 

Stiles knew he should stop talking, but he knew that if he let Brunski take him into a padded cell things were going to go bad. Especially since he felt like it was exactly what the nogitsune wanted. He could feel it claw inside him, reaching for something to grab onto. There was a metaphorical ledge in the padded cell, and void was trying to grab it. 

Brunski tilted his head and watched him interestedly. “Fucking’s on the table?” 

Stiles swallowed, glanced at the amphetamine in Brunski’s hand. “Do I get those?” 

Brunski glanced back down the corridor and carefully put the drugs back into Stiles’ pocket. They watched each other tensely, then Stiles reached out and tugged Brunski’s trousers and underwear down so he could grab a hold of his dick. 

Brunski grunted and Stiles made a few, experimental jerks along his shaft. Jerking someone off was different than wanking off himself, but Brunski didn’t seem to care for Stiles’ inexperienced hands. Brunski placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him down on the floor. 

“You better make it real wet, it’s all you’re gonna get,” Brunski said. 

Was Stiles really doing this? For what? A few drugs that would keep him awake for longer so the monster inside of him wouldn’t get a hold of him that quickly? Apparently Stiles took too long considering what he’d actually do to stop the nogitsune, because Brunski grabbed his hair and shoved his dick into his mouth.

It was kind of like he remembered it with Matt, except that Brunski tugged at his head and jerked his hips which made his dick slide too deep into Stiles throat. Stiles coughed, and Brunski pulled out enough that he didn’t choke. 

“Put some feeling into it, or you’re going directly to the padding, kid.” 

Stiles glared up at him, gave him a look like _‘seriously, dude?’_ then Brunski shoved his dick back in. Stiles tried to suck in his cheeks and Brunski groaned and tightened the grip on his hair. 

“You’re a fucking slut, aren’t you?” Brunski grunted and slammed his cock deeper into Stiles' mouth. Stiles thought about knitting. Was knitting hard? He could probably take up knitting. He had enough yarn at home. If he ever got home, that is. “Stand up, put your hands on the wall.” 

Stiles grimased, released Brunski’s dick with a wet pop and did as he was told. Brunski pulled his pants and underwear down just enough to expose his ass. The orderly slapped his ass-cheeks, then stepped close and guided the head of his dick to Stiles hole. 

Fuck, Stiles was seriously doing this. 

Brunski forced himself in and Stiles cried out, but Brunski slapped a hand over his mouth. 

“Shush, keep that crazy mouth closed.” he murmured and thrusted back and forth. Stiles still couldn’t keep the groan in, despite the command. He scrunched his face together and breathed through his nose. Brunski just grunted and snapped his hips a few times, harshly and quickly, and then came with a grunt. 

_‘Pathetic,’_ something said inside of him, and Stiles was sure it didn’t come from him. He didn’t know if it was directed at him, either, or Brunski. He decided to take it as a both. Brunski released his mouth; panting heavily against him. 

“Get the fuck out of here, little man,” Brunski said. Stiles cast one look at the basement door, holding all of its damn secrets, and pulled up his pants.


	3. Malia

Stiles needed to get into the basement. The keys were a bust. Brunski was an asshole. Stiles’ ass hurt. He was out of options, so once he was sure he had shaken Brunski he circled around to find Malia. 

“Can you help me?” he asked. She glared at him. The look said  _ ‘I’ve already helped you, jerk.’ _ Stiles shook his head and leaned close to her. “None of the keys fitted.” 

“What do you want me to do about it?” Malia snorted. She wrapped her arms around her like she was cold. Stiles looked around for someone, feeling like someone was watching him. 

“I was hoping you could break the lock,” he said silently. Malia raised an eyebrow at him. Stiles gave her a meaningful look. “I’m guessing that you can be pretty strong if you concentrate.” 

Malia frowned and looked around, then stood up from the armchair. 

“Come on then,” she said with a sigh, like she couldn’t believe she was doing this. 

Together they returned to the basement door. Stiles tried his best not to think about anything that had happened with Brunski against the door, and he also tried to push the thought of Malia being able to use her were-senses to probably smell sex all over this place. Gross. 

Malia gripped the handle and forced her eyes closed in concentration. Stiles glanced over his shoulder like Brunski would reappear any second. 

“Hurry,” he whispered. The lock broke with a large bang. Stiles winced, Malia pushed the door open. Quickly they both hurried inside and Malia closed the door behind them. Stiles looked around quickly. There were cabinets with files, an old, dusty couch, a bunch of boiler-equipment, and a creepy horror-story wheelchair. There was also a backwards five scratched onto the wall. Stiles stood and stared at it for a moment, then he went over to look through the boxes. 

“Do you know what you’re looking for?” Malia asked and walked up next to him. 

“Something to do with  _ that. _ ” Stiles said and nodded towards the kanji. Malia looked at it with a frown. 

“What does it mean?” she asked. 

“Self,” said Stiles stiffly. Self, like the one thing Stiles was not anymore. He was something else, something the opposite of self. There could be no self in the void. 

“Maybe you should tell me more?” Malia said drily. Stiles glanced at her. 

“You might not like me if you know any more…” 

Malia looked like she was struggling between two things to say; one, that she didn’t like him to begin with, and two, something that would get him to fill her in. It appeared like option two won out in the end. 

“Try to remember that I’m a werecoyote who murdered her own family. I won’t judge. I promise.” she said. Stiles swallowed and started going through the boxes, but he also told her. He read the files as he spoke, and eventually Malia joined in the search. 

Once Stiles had told her pretty much everything he knew of the nogitsune they both became quiet. There was a lot of shit in the boxes, but nothing seemed relevant to Stiles. Nothing explained why he for some reason had dreamt of this very room when he sleepwalked, or how there was the actual kanji for self on the wall, just like he remembered the wrapped man scratch into that exact place. 

“This place definitely used to be a  _ lot _ more fun - electroshock, ice baths… trephination?” Stiles looked over to the picture she held, of someone with a hole in their head. He grimaced. 

“That’s what Oliver was talking about.” he said slowly. “Trephination is when they drill into your head.” 

“No wonder they don’t want anyone down here…” Malia said, placed the picture down and picked up another folder. 

Stiles sighed. 

“There’s nothing here.” he said and rubbed his face. He was getting tired. How long had it been since he slept? How long had it been since he slept well? Weeks, at least. He pressed a fist tightly against his mouth and glanced at Malia. “Hey, could you do me a favour? Could you just check the lines on my back?” 

He twisted about and pulled up his shirt from his back. Malia helped him by tugging at the fabric. “Just tell me if they’re fading?” 

“Yeah, they’re almost gone.” 

Stiles froze. A sigh escaped him. It was just a matter of time before his self was gone completely, then. 

“I’m guessing that’s bad?” Malia asked. Stiles nodded. Malia tugged his shirt back down, and an ice cold finger touched his skin. Stiles jumped and gasped. “Oh, sorry. I told you I’m always cold.” 

“That’s okay,” he said hesitantly and twisted back to her. She looked away from him and shoved her hands between her thighs to warm them. Stiles hesitated, then reached out for them. “Here.” 

He took both hands in his and started massaging them lightly. His mom had done this to him when he was a kid to warm him. Stiles had been a very disorganised kid, so gloves had never really been around when he needed them. He watched his own hands work, then glanced up at Malia. 

“Wow, you really are,” he joked. Malia scoffed, but lightly, like she thought he was funny. Stiles kept warming her hands. When he looked back up at her Malia had this intense look on her face and her eyes were glued onto him. The intensity surprised him and he gave her a confused look. 

Then Malia reached over and pressed her lips against his. Stiles kissed back kind of on autopilot, and then when they pulled away he glanced down on her lips. Malia smiled lightly. 

“Was that your first kiss?” he asked hesitantly. Malia smiled wider and nodded. Stiles felt something else, other than the darkness worm a little in his stomach. “Was it okay?” 

Malia nodded. 

“Want to try it again?” Stiles asked. He hadn’t felt anything other than the void in so long that the idea of kissing Malia and feeling excitement felt like a liferaft. Malia nodded, so Stiles reached out, touched her face and kissed her. Her hand snuck up and touched his neck, and Stiles shivered into it. For the first time in a long time he actually felt a little warmer. 

They kissed for a time, then Malia pulled away. Stiles tried to reach her lips again, but Malia kept them away from him. 

“I want to try something else.” she whispered, her breath ghosting past his lips. 

“Something else..?” Stiles said slowly. 

“Yeah,” Malia nodded. Then she pulled off her shirt. 

Stiles looked down at the suddenly exposed skin, the grey bra with a delicate lace. He could feel Malia’s eyes on him as he watched. It wasn’t like Stiles immediately felt something. Not like he was sure he used to before. Just the thought of being alone with a girl in a bra would have set him off before. But it also wasn’t like he thought it was bad. He just… barely felt things anymore. 

He looked up in Malia’s face, saw the searching expression on his face and thought  _ ‘this might as well happen.’  _ At least he’d be himself when he lost his virginity. 

_ ‘You’ve already lost it,’ _ something dark in his head said. Stiles leaned over and kissed Malia. She pulled him down over her on the couch, and they kept kissing. Malia was soft and she was right, she was very cold. Even her lips were kind of cold. 

Stiles pulled away to look down on her for a second. She smiled and did this cute thing with her head like she egged him on, so Stiles started kissing down her throat. Malia grasped his shoulders and he could hear her sigh underneath him like she was categorizing everything for future reference. 

“Do you want to -” Malia mumbled. Stiles dad had once said to him that if you couldn’t say the word sex you weren’t ready to have it. Stiles pulled away to look at Malia again. 

“Do you want to?” he asked. He didn’t say the sex-word either. He had said fucking to Brunski, though. Stiles shook that thought away when Malia nodded. He nodded too and sat up. Malia lifted her hips off the couch so he could pull down her pants. 

Stiles didn’t take off his shirt, and Malia didn’t seem to care. Stiles didn’t want to take off his shirt. He was worried he’d catch sight of the fading lines on himself and then he might start crying. He just got his own pants off of him and came back over Malia. 

They kissed again. Malia dragged her hands over his back. He kissed her cold skin over the neck that she seemed to like. Malia squirmed underneath him and her hands went down to his hips. She tugged him forth and Stiles let himself feel the way his hardening dick just slid along her skin. 

Stiles’ dick was actually in contact with someone. It was actually pretty hot, nogitsune threatening to take him over be damned. 

Malia started rubbing her crotch against his and Stiles gasped softly. 

Losing his virginity was… weird. Like a good, awkward kind of weird. Stiles wasn’t quite sure how he even ended up in Malia in that regard, it just… happened. And when he realised he was inside her he desperately had this craving for more, for comfort, to feel anything other than the overwhelming dread in his chest. 

He moved softly and Malia clung to his back and moaned into his ear. She sounded wild, which kind of made up for the fact that Stiles was pretty quiet. Malia liked it, and Stiles really liked that she liked it. When she gasped he felt powerful, like he still had agency over his body. When she moaned he felt proud because he made her make those sounds. 

He kissed her again and thrusted into her, and Malia dug her nails into his back and kept making those sounds.

It was over quickly. Stiles wondered if he should be awkward about that, but Malia smiled at him, and after they put their clothes back on Malia pulled him back down on the couch for cuddles. 

And when the nogitsune promised to let Malia live if Stiles let it in, Stiles thought about that one glorious moment when he felt alive with her, and he let the fox inside. 


	4. Donovan

Stiles knew he was falling apart, because his jeep was falling apart too. He had always taken pride in her, but she’s old, and he’s broke, and there has just too much going on in his life for the last couple of — years, if he’s honest with himself. 

His mom’s illness, her death, his dad’s drinking and overworking. All the supernatural shit that kept happening all the damn time. Roscoe has been suffering from his neglect and now she was rebelling. With smoke. Maybe she was sick of duct tape? 

Stiles peered down gloomily at the engine, then rushed to the back to get his tools. He wanted to scream in frustration, but instead he started on the jeep.

He thought he had fixed the problem — at least the imminent problem, when suddenly someone grabbed his shoulder. Pain shot through his body. It felt like acid, or something sucking his life away. 

God, it hurt! Stiles screamed out, his body reacted, trying to break the iron grip. 

He managed to force the hand away from his shoulder and saw a gaping mouth and teeth snap after him. Stiles fumbled after something, anything to get it off of him. The wrench was right there on the car, so Stiles reached out for it. 

His attacker held on so tight, but through a surge of adrenaline Stiles jabbed his head back and knocked him in the face. When the attacker let go Stiles stumbled forth and grabbed the wrench. He spun around and slammed it with all the force he could muster into his attackers head. 

Stiles saw Donovan Donati fall to the ground almost in slow motion. He saw blood spew after him as he went down. Stiles’ feet started running all on their own. His shoulder screamed and Stiles barely made it ten meters before he stopped and stared behind him. Donovan was pushing himself up the ground and there were definitely supernatural teeth in his mouth. 

He’s sure he heard Donovan growl. Stiles ran towards the school, pushing through the pain. He didn’t have to look behind him to tell Donovan was following. 

Stiles ran through the corridors, then burst out through the other side. He needed somewhere Donovan couldn’t find him, or somewhere he could lock. Stiles ran head first to the library, but the door was locked. 

He jiggled the handle, then looked to the card key. Stiles fumbled with his wallet, got forth the key-card and unlocked the door. He burst forward and tossed it together after him, then he hurried inside and tried to still his heartbeat. 

God his shoulder hurt. Stiles glanced at it again. There was a burn mark through his shirt, which was already soaking with blood. Fuck. 

In the silence the key card sounded louder than it ought to, and that meant that Donovan was coming to. Stiles ran as quietly as he could over to some bookcases and hid behind them. He heard Donovan come inside and held his breath. 

Then his phone started buzzing. Stiles reached into his pocket, but it wasn’t there. He froze, just in time to hear Donovan start talking. 

“You dropped your phone...” Donovan called out. “It’s Malia. Should I text her back?” 

Stiles hissed through his teeth and glanced around the bookcase. He couldn’t see him, but it sounded like he was close. 

“You don't really know who I am, do you, Stiles?” Donovan said. Stiles heard his footsteps and sneaked further off. 

Stiles knew exactly how Donovan was. His dad’s partner’s kid when Stiles was young, before his mom died and his dad was still a deputy. They had been at barbecues and parties and pool parties together, but Donovan had been a teen and Stiles a kid then. 

“Maybe you heard about my father... did your dad tell you about him?” Donovan asked. Wonderful. Of course there was going to be an evil monologue about this, like Stiles didn’t know exactly what had happened to Donovan’s dad. Like Stiles didn’t know  _ everything _ that was worth knowing. Like Stiles didn’t have to know everything so he could keep everyone safe? 

“Did Sheriff Stilinski ever tell you about the time he was still a deputy, and how his partner got caught in a shoot-out? Did he tell you a bullet shattered my dad's T-9 vertebra? Went through his spinal cord.” Donovan sounded mad now, and Stiles knew that didn’t bode well for him. “Know what that means? It means everything below his waist is  _ useless _ . And not just his legs.”

Stiles winced. He knew his dad felt awful about it. Guilty. He knew Noah had tried everything to help both Donovan’s dad and Donovan. Not only that, but he knew the only reason Donovan even came close to becoming a deputy was because his dad had helped, right until the moment where Donovan couldn’t get past the Anger Expression Inventory and there was no way in hell that was happening. 

And Donovan didn’t even fucking realize it. 

“I bet he told you some of it. But I bet he probably left out the part where he was sitting in a car calling for backup while my dad was going in alone. Did he tell you he was too  _ scared _ \-- too much of a frightened little  _ bitch _ \-- to go in after him?” Donovan hissed. Stiles clutched the shelf in front of him and stared at the wench still in his hand. “Or do scared little bitches not tell their  _ little bitch sons  _ about their failures?”

Stiles clenched his fist to his mouth, fighting the urge to argue, or scream at him. His father was the bravest man Stiles knew, he was  _ not _ a bitch. He had done the right thing, and it wasn’t his fault Donovan’s dad got hurt. 

“About how they put their partner in a wheelchair for the rest of his life?” Donovan taunted, then Stiles saw his silhouette as he walked up the stairs. Stiles carefully moved from his hiding spot but made sure to sneak along the shelves, trying to keep out of sight. He stopped for a moment, trying to calm his breathing and try and listen for Donovan from upstairs. 

He couldn’t hear anything. Donovan was probably walking on the second floor, looking through the reading nooks for him. 

And that’s of course when Donovan grabbed his throat from behind and pulled him through the fucking bookcase. Stiles screamed. Books fell around them. Donovan slammed him against the floor, but Stiles flailed around and tried punching him. All he knew was that he needed to keep Donovan’s creepy-ass hand-mouth away from Stiles. 

“Don’t worry, Stiles. I’m not going to kill you…” Donovan hissed. “I’m just gonna -” 

Stiles scrambled around and kicked out. He hit Donovan, but when Donovan fell Stiles got pulled with him. Stiles shouted, then tried to crawl away from him. Donovan growled. Stiles got a few feet, but then Donovan grabbed his leg and jerked him back. 

“You little bitch!” Donovan screamed. Stiles felt claws dig into his leg and then Donovan grabbed his hair and slammed Stiles’ head down against the floor. Stiles felt pain erupt and his head started spinning. Donovan pinned him and pressed his face against the side of Stiles’. “I was just gonna eat your legs, but you just made it personal.” 

“Donovan, fuck off.” Stiles groaned. Donovan grabbed hold of his trousers and jerked them down. 

“Bet daddy’s gonna like it even less if his little bitch son is fucked  _ and  _ legless.” 

“No, Donovan,” Stiles hissed, but then Donovan already shoved his dick into him. Stiles screamed and Donovan thrust forward. He groaned into Stiles’ ear and Stiles felt a shiver of sick rush through his body. 

This wasn’t happening right now. Stiles wasn’t doing this right now. He slammed his elbow out, twisted around so his entire back felt like it was breaking, and connected his elbow to Donovan’s face.

Donovan groaned and fell off of him, and Stiles jerked up and ran. He ran to the scaffolding and started climbing, as fast as he could. Stiles heard Donovan scramble after him. He had barely reached two meters up before Donovan grabbed his leg and tried to jerk him back down. Stiles screamed and clung onto the railing. 

Donovan hissed, and Stiles scrambled for anything, any way to get up and away. His eyes locked onto a pin holding the scaffolding together and he reached for it. His fingers barely graced it. Stiles shouted, pushed one last time, and got it. 

The scaffolding next to him fell down. There was a loud bang behind him, and Donovan’s grip released. Stiles looked over his shoulder, onto Donovan, impaled on beams. Blood surged out of his mouth as he coughed. 

‘Die already,’ Stiles thought and climbed down. Donovan glared at him, but blood was spilling out of his mouth in insane amounts. Stiles swallowed and shakily walked over. The beam was standing straight out from the ground.

Stiles looked at Donovan’s face. He couldn’t — he needed to help him. Stiles reached out and carefully wrapped his fingers around the beam. He carefully tugged at it, but it was stuck. Donovan’s chest made a little sloshing sound. He glanced back at Donovan’s face, and saw as his head fell back and the light switched off. 

Stiles released the beam and took a step back. He had just killed Donovan. 

Stiles had just killed Donovan. 


	5. Theo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets a warning, because it became much darker than I imagined it would.

Stiles knows he’s right about Theo. 

Yes, that time Stiles and Liam were in the freaking woods, trying to uncover god knows what Theo was up to Theo hadn’t actually been up to anything nefarious. He’d been all mopey over his dead sister, and apparently Liam thought he smelled good. 

And then Theo had been all like ‘ _ I came back for Scott, but I also came back for you, Stiles.’ _ And it’s weird, and strangely flattering, which is why Stiles knows he’s right. Because Theo from fourth grade was a 10-year-old grade-a asshole. A complete psychopath in the making. And he  _ did not  _ come for Stiles. 

But it is flattering. 

And yet, it’s more rewarding when Theo looks at him after he’s killed the Chimera, and he confirms everything that Stiles already knew. Theo was not to be trusted. 

“Stiles… you can’t say anything.” Theo pleads. “Please, don’t say anything.” 

It’s like a fucking tidal wave. Stiles was right. Stiles was not a paranoid freaking mess of an asshole, but he was right. Stiles isn’t paranoid, because he’s right, and he’s keeping the people he loves safe. 

“Why not?” Stiles snaps, and then Theo has to go and ruin it. 

“Because I never said anything about Donovan,” he says. Stiles feel his face fall. Victory that he had tasted just seconds ago disappear, turn to ash. He freezes, and Theo gives him a look that cut through his flesh. 

“I know what happened to Donovan,” he says. “I know everything.” 

Stiles freezes. He thinks of Donovan over his back, Donovan’s dick in his ass. He thinks of Donovan’s chest being impaled by a fucking metal pipe. 

“You don’t know anything.” Stiles says. 

“I was there.” Theo snaps. “I was at the library. Malia found the book — she was texting us to see where you were. She said she left you at the library. I told her I was close. When I got there, I heard the scaffling come down.” 

Stiles relaxes. It’s completely involuntary, but he does. It’s awful, but he’d much rather Theo knows about him murdering a guy than him knowing Stiles’ murdered his fucking rapist. And the moment he thinks that, he’s filled up with guilt and he wants to throw up. He tries to take a deep breath, but it is shaky at best. 

“You saw him?” 

“Just the body,” Theo says. “I watched you come out. I was gonna say something, but then I saw the cop car. And the body was gone. I don’t know who took him. I only saw what you saw, and I didn’t say anything because you didn’t.” 

Theo’s good. Stiles is almost convinced. Then he looks at the body of the Chimera, a kid their age, and he hears sirens. 

“That’s not an ambulance, is it?” he says drily. 

“We should get out of here,” says Theo. 

“We can’t just leave him,” says Stiles. And they can’t. The kid is dead and murderous Chimera or not, he didn’t deserve this. 

But Donovan did, a dark voice in his head says. It sounds like the nogitsune. It sounds like void. Stiles hate that that sound, and he hates above all that it sounds like Stiles. 

“Fine.” Theo snaps. “All right, let’s take him.” 

Stiles glare at him, but Theo appears completely honest. “Someone’s stealing the bodies anyway, right? Here’s our chance to find out who.” 

They glare at each other, and Stiles glance back at the Chimera. He’s panicking. He can feel himself shut down. Stiles never shut down. Stiles keeps going. 

“Stiles, come on!” Theo snaps. “We gotta do something.” 

“You killed him,” Stiles accuses. Theo takes a step closer to him. 

“In self-defence.” he says. “He was going to kill you  _ and _ me. If we stay, we’re either going to have to tell the truth, or we’re going to need a pretty convincing story.” 

The problem is that Theo is too good. Too concerned, too good at buttering up and saying the right things. Like how he doesn’t say anything because he’s just following Stiles’ lead, or how he only did what he did to protect them. 

But Stiles is the protector of the pack, and he wants… he wants someone to protect him for a change. 

“It’s your choice,” Theo says, like Stiles have a choice. God, he’s good. Stiles takes it, even though he’s certain it’s a trap. He wants what Theo is offering. “I’m not going to ask you to lie to your dad.” 

“Don’t worry,” Stiles says and bends over the Chimera. “I’ve had plenty of practice.” 

They make it back to the animal clinic with the body, and Scott of course fucking knows the Chimera’s name. Josh. 

Scott asks who killed him, then he offers the perfect lie all on his own and Theo, like the freaking evil genius that he is takes it, blames Josh’s death on the doctor with the cane.

“What are we going to do with him?” Stiles asks and glares at the body. “We can’t just set the alarm and leave, that’s how Tracy disappeared.” 

No one has a good answer, so of course it’s up to Stiles to figure the shit out. “Alright, someone’s got to stay here with him. 

“I’ll do it,” Theo offers quickly. Both Stiles and Scott give him confused looks. “It’s not like had a big Saturday night planned.” 

Then Scott’s phone beeps. 

“What is it?” Stiles asks, anxious. For a second he thinks it’ll be something about Donovan. 

“Another one,” Scott says instead. “Another Chimera.” 

“Go!” Stiles orders, and Scott bounces off and leaves them alone. Stiles rubs his face. He’s tired and his shoulder hurt. The bite isn’t healing well. 

“Whoever’s stealing the bodies probably isn’t going to do it while we’re standing guard over one of them.” Stiles says once he’s collected himself. Theo shrugs. 

“So you’ve got a better idea?” he asks. 

As a matter of fact, Stiles have a better idea. He sets up his phone to observe the body, then they leave Josh’s sad, dead corpse and get into Stiles’ car. 

“What happens now?” Theo asks as Stiles pulls up the video on Theo’s phone. 

“We wait,” Stiles says. 

“You want to take shifts watching?” Theo asks. Stiles snorts and gives him a filthy look. 

“No… no, I want to spend some quality time with you.” 

“Sounds good to me.” Theo says, sweetly. Stiles hates him. “You still wondering why I haven’t said anything to Scott?” 

Stiles looks out through the windscreen and fantasizes about punching Theo in the face. It’s better than seeing Donovan gurgle his last breath. “Maybe.” 

“You think I have some kind of ulterior motive?” Theo asks levelly. 

“More than likely,” Stiles says. 

“Would you believe me if I said all I want — all I’ve  _ ever _ wanted — is for you guys to trust me?” 

“Nope.” Stiles says, pressing the p in his mouth.

“So you’re here because you’re never going to trust me.” 

“Yep. Glad we had this talk.” Stiles says. 

“You know who you remind me of?” 

“Theo, I don’t  _ care _ .” And he don’t. Caring is exhausting. He’s tired of caring. 

“My sister,” Theo says. Apparently he doesn’t care that Stiles don’t care. “She was smarter than everyone, too. And a pain in the ass like you.” 

Stiles flinches and looks away. 

“But she always looked out for me — the same way you look out for Scott.” 

The car falls silent for a moment, then Theo angles his chest towards him. “You know, I was the one that found her body. She’d fallen into a creek, broken her leg… they told us she would’ve been okay if it wasn’t one of the coldest nights of the year… if it wasn’t for the hypothermia. 

“And when I found her, all I could think was that I should have known. That I should’ve been looking out for her.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” Stiles asks. 

“I’m telling you because even if you don’t trust me, and even if you don’t like me, I’m still going to be looking out for you. The way I should have been looking out for her.” 

Stiles watches the clinic stiffly. Theo is silent, but his words feel heavy against Stiles’ skin. He’s itchy, and he needs to do something. 

He twists around and glares at Theo. 

“I don’t like you,” he hisses. Theo watches him levelly. 

“Okay,” he says. “I like you.” 

Stiles growls, then he presses his lips against Theo, and Theo parts his lips and lets Stiles’ tongue inside. Stiles hates Theo at that moment, but he still climbs over the gear level and into Theo’s lap. Theo puts his hands on his hips and tugs him close, and there is a moment of friction that causes them both to moan into each other’s mouths. 

“You’re an asshole,” Stiles says and bites Theo’s lower lip. 

“You’re a know-it-all,” Theo says back. Stiles grabs his hair harshly, jerks his head back and bites his neck. Theo moans and Stiles’ feel his pulse against his lips. 

Stiles doesn’t pull or tug at Malia. He’s not violent. He’s not angry. 

Well, he’s angry now. He’s angry at Theo, and he’s angry at the world, and Theo is letting him be violent against him. He tugs their hips closer together when Stiles bites him, and he’s hard against him, Stiles’ feel it even through their clothes. 

Stiles shifts, grabs Theo’s zipper and gets it down. He claws at Theo’s underwear, isn’t gentle, and springs his hard dick out from its confinements. 

He looks at it for a second, and he hates Theo’s cock as well. 

Stiles squirms up, tugs his own trousers off, which is about the most uncomfortable thing he’s ever done, but Theo, the asshole, helps him navigate around in the car and Stiles straddles his hips again. He reaches down, grab Theo by the edge of his shaft and moves to press Theo’s dick inside him. 

“Stiles, it’s dry,” Theo protests, sounding like he cares, like he’s worried about Stiles. Stiles grab Theo’s hair with the other hand, force his head back again and holds him there. 

“ _ Shut. Up _ ,” he hisses and slams down on him. Theo groans, Stiles hides his face in Theo’s shoulder and tries not to die. 

It hurts, but it’s also good. It’s good because it hurts. Theo puts his hands on Stiles’ now naked hips, but he doesn’t do anything to force his movements, he just grips him so tightly it’s certain to leave bruises. 

Slowly Stiles starts moving, because he’s apparently a sick individual who fucks people he hates as a way to punish them now. 

Or maybe he’s punishing himself. Stiles isn’t sure, and he doesn’t care. 

Theo gasps underneath him, twists his head and kisses Stiles’ neck. Stiles doesn’t move fast, doesn’t do it hard, but everything about it is hard regardless. His thighs are trembling at the position, the way he moves, and Theo helps him move with the grip he has on his hips. 

It’s not nice, and it’s awesome, because Theo sneaks a hand between them and grabs Stiles’ dick, and he starts pumping along with the movements and Stiles actually moans and pants with something else than pain. 

“Can I come inside you?” Theo asks. Stiles considers saying no just to find out what will happen, but Theo actually hits his g-spot and Stiles doesn’t give a shit. 

“Do whatever the fuck you want,” he moans, and Theo thrusts up into him and comes. Stiles keeps moving like he’s milking him dry, and Theo keeps tugging at his dick, and all of a sudden Stiles comes as well, shooting his own jizz over Theo’s ridiculously defined, clothed abs. 

Stiles keeps his face pressed into Theo’s neck. Theo strokes him over his back like he’s nice, like he’s looking after him, just like he promised. It’s very flattering. It’s fucking bullshit, but Stiles’ pretends its real. 

God, he’s a mess. 


	6. Peter

The train station is awful. Weird. Stiles feels like he’s bouncing between exhaustedly apathetic and jittery all over. He feels like he’s just been there tops a few hours, and also like he’s been stuck in the same place for years. He feels like he and Peter have tried every possible combination of rushing through doors, try and bend other doors open, and arguing with each other that there is. 

So right now they’re just sitting in silence next to each other. Stiles is glaring out at this hellhole that have become his life, and Peter is reading a newspaper like news are a thing that happens in this place. 

He’s having trouble wrapping his mind around the fact that he forgot Peter. The guy have been such a massive pain in his ass for so long that it actually makes him a little emotional to think about it. Stiles wouldn’t, in the most fucked-up way possible, be  _ Stiles _ if it wasn’t for Peter. 

Peter is Peter, and he’s  _ made _ Stiles. Peter is also fucking annoying, because he turns a page and sighs loudly. 

“I can hear your brain buzzing,” he says, sounding frustrated and bored at the same time. Stiles glares at him, but he doesn’t have the energy for something big. 

“We have to get out of here,” Stiles snaps and stands up. He’s going through a manic phase now, and sitting down is the last thing he wants to do. Peter sighs again and watch his back as Stiles stalks back to the little radio room, then he follows at a slower pace. 

“We have tried everything in here,” Peter says. Stiles flips a few switches, but nothing other than a soft crackle happens. 

“Well, there have to be something,” Stiles says. There’s always something. His father didn’t raise no quitter. In fact, his father  _ wishes _ that Stiles was a quitter, but Stiles is not. 

“Or you accept the fact that this is our life now,” Peter drawls and taps a lightbulb in one of the big machines by the wall. “Such as it is, a never-ending storm.” 

Stiles rubs his face, moves a few wires from one position to another, then yells in frustration. “I’m not good at just sitting around.” 

“You don’t say,” Peter says. They look at each other. Stiles chews the inside of his cheek. 

“When you offered to bite me,” he says thoughtfully, “why did you do it?” 

“I needed a pack.” Peter says. Stiles snorts. 

“Bullshit.” Peter glares at him, but Stiles crocks an eyebrow and gestures around widely. “If that was your only reason, there were plenty of kids you could have bitten — people who didn’t even know you and had such an understandable adversity to your whole crazy persona.” 

“You had… potential,” Peter says eventually. “You’re smarter than Scott, and loyal. You would have made a good Beta.” 

Stiles hums in the back of his throat. “And let me guess, you think that if you had bitten me instead of Scott that night, you would have succeeded in your villainous scheme?” 

Peter looks offended, but also like he’s enjoying this verbal sparring match. 

“But of course,” he says and places a hand over his heart. “You would have made an excellent evil side-kick.” 

Stiles grins and nods. He imagines it for a second, Peter, the monstrous, twisted thing of an alpha, and Stiles, werewolf-powers running through his already hyped ADHD-brain. God that would have been awful. Peter smiles sweetly, and completely fake. 

“Since you already have so much practice being Scott’s side-kick I imagine it wouldn’t be much different for you.” Peter says. Stiles actually laugh. 

It’s not funny, because Stiles isn’t Scott’s side-kick. At least not any more. Stiles barely feels like Scott’s friend most days. It’s better now — or, well, it  _ was _ better before Stiles was deleted from memory; and he still believes somewhere that someone will remember him, but Stiles is different, and Scott don’t know what to do with that. 

_ Stiles _ don’t know what to do with that. And before he completely disappeared from memory, Scott hadn’t even recalled him. Lydia was the only one who… the only one who fought to the end to remember him. 

“There is something different about you now,” Peter says thoughtfully. Stiles tilts his head, leans back in the chair. 

“Is it that I am less likely to take your bullshit now?” Stiles asks. Peter observes him critically, like Stiles is a bug under a microscope. He slowly shakes his head. 

“No,” he says, “it’s that you see things in grey now.” 

_ ‘Like me,’ _ hangs between them, unspoken but almost touchable. Stiles swallows. He doesn’t believe in easy fixes anymore. 

Some people have to make mistakes. Some people are human. 

But Peter is barely human, and most days, Stiles barely feels human, too. 

He stands up, tries one last attempt to get the radio working, then he gives up and walks towards the door. Peter stops him before he reaches it by grabbing hold of his arm. 

“Why is that?” Peter asks curiously, searches his face for clues. Stiles looks down on where Peter’s arm touches his, then he looks back up at Peter’s face. 

Peter furrows his eyebrows, so Stiles takes the last step between them and kisses him. It’s nothing more than a press of the lips, not urges, not desire. It’s the only way Stiles can explain why he sees in grey now. He doesn’t even care if Peter gets it or not. 

He pulls away and Peter frowns but does not let go of him. 

“I see,” Peter says. Maybe Peter does. Stiles shrugs. 

Peter moves, straightens up. They have to be the same height now, but it feels like Peter should be taller than him. Peter grabs him by the other arm too, softly, and presses Stiles backwards. Stiles follows with the motion until his back hits the desk. They watch each other. 

Peter’s hand sneaks up over his arms, gently. Peter doesn’t do gentle, unless he thinks there’s something in it for him. 

“If we don’t exist any more,” Stiles says and looks into his bright-blue eyes, “want to have sex?” 

Peter’s fingers tap over his arm, then Peter leans over and kiss him. It starts as chaste as the first one, but Stiles opens his mouth and tugs Peter closer, and Peter deepens the kiss. Peter slides his hands down Stiles’ arms, to his chest, where they shove off his flannel shirt, then tugs off Stiles’ t-shirt. They break apart from kissing so Peter is able to pull the shirt over Stiles’ head, and then Stiles opens his jeans and push both trousers and underwear down. He watches as Peter watch him, then he turns around and puts his hands on the desk. 

“Oh, Stiles,” Peter murmurs, almost like he feels sorry for him, and Stiles doesn’t like that, but then Peter steps closer and cups his ass. Stiles close his eyes, and Peter strokes up and down along his ass-cheeks. 

Little sparks shoot through him. His skin breaks out into goosebumps, and Peter leans down and kisses along his spine. His fingers tickle his skin; there are caresses and squeezes, and then Stiles hear Peter shift behind him. 

The kisses disappear for a second, but then Peter spreads his ass-cheeks and puts his mouth in his ass. Apparently he got down on his knees behind him.

“Oh,  _ fuck _ .” Stiles mumbles. Peter licks him, tongue moving first softly and then hard, presses inside him a little, then pulls back. Stiles is rock hard, so he puts all his weight on one hand and grabs his dick with the other, and Peter laps at him. 

Stiles moans and arches his back, and he’s panting and pulling at himself desperately. 

“Peter, please.” he says breathlessly. Peter stops his torture and stands up. He reaches around, takes Stiles’ hand off his dick and puts it back on the desk. The grip is deliberate and intense, and Stiles get the message. Keep your hands here. 

Peter then snakes his hand up along his arm, over his back and to the small of his back. 

“You know, we could have done this if you had been my Beta,” he says. 

“You would have loved that, wouldn’t you?” Stiles snorts. Peter presses his dick against Stiles, and Stiles stops breathing for a second. 

Peter leans against his back, kisses his shoulder blades and press inside him. 

“I think,” Peter grunts and stays still for Stiles to adjust, “that it could have been beneficial for you.” 

“Yeah, ‘cause everything is fixed with some Hale-cock,” Stiles says then moans loudly as Peter begins thrusting into him. 

“Precisely,” Peter says. Stiles hear his smirk against his skin, but the thing is, Peter is most likely the most well-versed Stiles have ever been with. It only takes him a few thrusts before he finds Stiles’ g-spot, and after that he hits it every single time. 

Stiles arches his back into Peter’s chest, and Peter sneaks a hand around and starts jerking him off again. The pace becomes brutal. Peter hits the right spot against him, and Stiles squirms and moans and gasps and if Peter wasn’t holding him in place too he would probably have fallen down.

“You can let go,” Peter murmurs against his skin. He jerks his thumb over the tip of Stiles’ dick and hits his g-spot, and Stiles screams and explodes. Peter keeps fucking him, and only comes when Stiles’ own orgasm stops clenching his body. 

“Holy fuck,” Stiles mumbles. Peter rests his sweaty forehead against Stiles’ naked back. 

“See,” Peter says, sounding smug. “Potential.” 

Stiles scoffs and straightens up, which forces Peter to slide out of him. Stiles turns around, gives Peter a once-over. Stiles is naked, Peter’s clothed except for the open jeans. 

It doesn’t really bother Stiles. He steps back onto his own trousers and pulls them up. 

“We have to find a way out of here.” Stiles says. Peter closes his zipper and watch him in fascination. 

“I’m going through the portal,” he says. Stiles is surprised at that. He raises an eyebrow. 

“Wait — no one gets through the portal,” Stiles says. “You said it yourself.” 

“No  _ human _ can. But I’m better than human, remember?” Peter shakes his head. “I’ll heal.” 

Stiles stare at him. Peter shrugs and feigns nonchalance. 

“Stiles, let’s not have a moment.” he says. Stiles smiles, and it feels real for the first time in a long time. 

“You have to tell them I am here.” he says. “They’re not going to remember me, so you have to tell them, alright?” 

Peter scoffs, but he barely argues. Stiles puts on his shirts again, then he helps Peter stall the Ghost Riders and watch Peter pass through the portal. 

Peter fucking Hale. Who would have thought? 


	7. Lydia

Touching Lydia Martin is weird. For the longest time, Stiles had this image in his head, about how it would be, how she would feel and sound, and in turn how he would feel and sound. The truth is, his imagination has been sorely lacking. 

For a while, he had imagined her as being a bit of a pillow-princess, and then he imagined her as a fiery vixen. Jackson Whittemore was the one who put that idea into his head. But the truth is that Lydia is neither. Or maybe she’s both, or just — maybe the reason he’s been unable to think of a reasonable scenario with her is because Lydia Martin contains multitudes. She’s always been more than Beacon Hills could handle, and in turn, she’s more than Stiles knows how to handle.

They’re in her house after the Wild Hunt and Lydia watch him like she’s amazed that he’s real. She touches him like she’s amazed he’s solid. Under her touch, he feels more precious than he’s ever done, and the feeling both excites and scares him. Lydia strokes her fingers through his hair like she loves the way it feels between her fingertips, and she does it simply to give herself the pleasure of feeling it. 

Maybe the thing that makes him feel so light-headed is that being with Lydia Martin is more about how he feels when  _ she _ touches  _ him _ and not the other way around, and beforehand his imagination had always just focused on  _ her _ , not  _ him _ . 

Even in his own imagination, Stiles had been an afterthought, something that obviously  _ felt _ , but hadn’t been the main attraction. That had always been Lydia. The reality isn’t like that. Her touch makes him too aware of his own body, his own feelings. Under her fingers, he can’t be an afterthought, because Lydia treats him like he’s the centre of the world.

Maybe Stiles is just fully unprepared for the way Lydia’s hands expel love through his skin. It’s almost too much. It feels good, but it also feels like it burns. Like her touch is too much for him to handle. 

Lydia kisses him and her kisses leave him breathless. She pushes him onto the bed and trails kisses down his throat, and Stiles pants underneath her. Her hands caress his chest and her fingers burn and make him hot and boneless like putty. 

He briefly wonders if he should try and make an effort to touch her the way she’s touching him, but his body is reactive, not proactive with her. He clings to her when she’s close to him, he trails hands down her back when she makes it convenient, he kisses her skin when she moves it close enough for him to kiss. 

Lydia is in the lead between them and Stiles can’t bring himself to care. He doesn’t want to care, because if this is how it feels to let Lydia Martin lead he’s prepared to do it for an eternity. 

Lydia kisses down his stomach, down to his crotch. She ghosts her breath over his dick and places a burning hot hand on his thigh before she takes his dick into her mouth. 

Stiles moans, reacting to her, and clutches the sheets. 

Sex hasn’t felt like this for a long time. Maybe it’s never felt like this if he’s honest with himself. Lydia focuses her attention to the tip of his head, licks and bobs her head, and the hand not burning a hole through his thigh strokes his shaft, and it’s good. It’s so good, and not because it hurts, but simply because it’s good. 

He’s a panting mess when Lydia straddles his hips. She’s gorgeous in the soft light. She arches her back and her naked breasts push outwards as she slides onto him. Stiles grips her thighs because he needs to hold onto something as Lydia slowly rides him. 

It’s not rushed, but soft and gentle and her hands on his chest ground him as she uses the support to navigate herself. The strawberry-blonde hair is up in a messy bun, something Lydia just tossed up before they started kissing, and it’s honestly one of the hottest hairdos he’s ever seen her in. 

Lydia’s slow pace is torture in itself, and Stiles knows now how it’s like to be undone completely. If he could form coherent thought at the moment he’d be amazed how little it took for Lydia to expose him, but he can’t really focus on anything other than the way her touch sends sparks through his body. 

She moans and quickens her pace, and it doesn’t take long before Stiles comes. He cries out as he does, partly because it’s mindbogglingly good, but also because the strength of his orgasm startles him. 

Lydia grins over him and Stiles pants and tries to catch his breath. She slides off him and straddles his thigh, then she starts rubbing herself off on him. 

It’s hot, and Lydia leans down and kisses him as she comes. He clings onto her for dear life, feeling how her body tenses as her orgasm rocks through her. 

Then Lydia lies down next to him and curls up with her head on his chest. Lydia’s bed is unbelievably soft, and Lydia’s breath ghosts past his skin and turns it unto goosebumps. 

Stiles doesn’t realize he’s crying until Lydia brings it up. 

“Stiles, you alright?” she asks, and there is alarm in her voice. Stiles raises a hand to his eye and feel the wetness there, and he’s pretty sure he is alright. He’s pretty sure its happy tears. He just nods and hugs Lydia tightly, and she allows him to hide his face in her neck after some squirming. She hugs him close and rubs him over his back, and Stiles feel happy. 


	8. Derek

When Stiles and Derek run into each other in New York it’s been close to six years since they last saw each other. Stiles works all over the country as an agent at the FBI, and Derek - Derek is an interior designer, believe it or not. Stiles laughs when Derek tells him, but Derek just stares levelly at him until Stiles realizes he’s serious, and then he laughs more because he’ll always think of Derek as the guy who lived with a giant hole in the wall because he couldn’t be bothered to fix it. 

Derek looks really good. Like he’s in a better place now than he’s ever been, and he even smiles when Stiles offers to buy him a beer. And then he accepts, and sit down opposite Stiles like they’re old friends. 

They are, but it’s more complicated than _yeah, totally, let’s grab a beer together and chat._ They never chatted much, even though Stiles is sure Derek chatted more with him than he did with just about anyone in the pack. 

Stiles expects some stoic silence, but after a moment Derek shocks him by taking a sip of his beer and ask Stiles a question. “How’s Lydia?” 

When Stiles have collected himself - because seriously, is Derek Hale making small-talk? - he smiles and shrugs. 

“She’s good,” he says and fiddles with his own bottle. “We’re not together anymore.” 

Derek winces. “Oh, I thought -” 

“No, it’s cool dude,” Stiles says with a laugh. “It was totally mutual and we’re fine. I probably speak to her more now than I did when we were together.” 

And it was true. He and Lydia were in a good place, and they were in that good place separately. She was _Lydia_ and he was _Stiles_ , and their bond was stronger than ever. It just wasn’t a girlfriend/boyfriend bond anymore. 

At Stiles reassurances, Derek seems to calm down a little, even though he still looks bothered. Luckily the bar was quiet enough that Derek without problem can hear Stiles’ heartbeat and can tell he was genuine when he says he was fine, otherwise it looks like Derek seriously considered bolting. 

“Hows Braeden?” Stiles asks. Last he heard, she and Derek had been in South Africa, doing some favour for the Calavera family. It had been pretty hush-hush as far as Stiles knew. He wonders if it was before or after Derek started getting into interior design. 

“Last I heard she was good.” Stiles raises an eyebrow and Derek shrugs. “We’re not together either.” 

“Sorry,” Stiles says. Derek shrugs again like he didn’t care either way, so Stiles dropped it. 

“So, FBI, huh?” Derek said. “Even after you got hurt in the line of duty.” 

“Hey, it was my toe, and it was serious!” Stiles said and pointed a threatening finger at him. Derek hid his grin with his beer and Stiles shook his head, appalled by the ruthless bullying he got subjected to. Then, just to save his pride, he added, “I’m actually good at it.” 

Derek gave him a serious, appraising look and nodded. 

“Yeah, I can imagine,” he said and his voice was sincere. 

Stiles feels oddly flattered, so he hides his face with the beer. 

They sit in silence for a while, and the silence is comfortable. Stiles usually don’t do comfortable silences. He certainly doesn’t remember having them with Derek six years ago, or any time before that, but now he feels fine. They sit opposite each other, and Stiles begins spilling the tea of office romances and Derek hums at the appropriate times as he cares about who’s giving bedroom eyes to who of Stiles’ co-workers. 

Soon their beers are out, and it feels like it should be time to say goodbye. Stiles have work tomorrow morning. His co-workers have already left up to their hotel rooms, so he’s the last one out. And yet he doesn’t want to say goodbye. 

He didn’t know, but he’s missed Derek. He doesn’t want it to go another six years before they see each other again. 

“I’m so sick of hotel rooms,” Stiles says. Derek takes the last swig of his beer and watches him with clear eyes. 

“You could stay at my place,” he says. Stiles mulls it over for a moment. 

“I don’t know, have you interior designed your place?” he asks. Derek rolls his eyes but his mouth quirks up just a little. 

“Yes, Stiles, I have,” he says. Stiles grins. 

“Well, then I have to see it,” Stiles says. So they leave the bar together, and Derek shows him to his - 

“You got the Camaro again?” Stiles squeals. He’s so excited that he grabs Derek by the shoulder and shakes him, and Derek huffs amused.

“The Toyota was a good car,” he says defensively. 

“The Toyota sucked balls, Derek,” Stiles snorts and jumps into the passenger’s seat. Comparing the Camaro with the Toyota is like comparing space travel with horse and carriage, technically transportation, but so widely different they’re not really appliable to one another. 

Inside the Camaro smells like leather, oil and something Stiles immediately recognizes as _Derek_. They sit in silence as Derek drives them to his place. They usually talked about whatever threat of the week they were facing back in Beacon Hills, but now there is no supernatural threat waiting to tear them to shreds - nothing they need to find a way to deal with or suffer death and destruction. 

It’s… nice, Stiles decides. It’s just the right amount of familiar, Derek next to him, together with enough new to keep things interesting. 

Derek drives into a garage and parks, then leads Stiles to an elevator and rides it all the way up to a penthouse. The elevator literally opens up into Derek’s living room. Stiles steps inside, whistling as he does. 

The penthouse is exactly how he would have expected from Derek, Stiles realizes ad he sees it. The walls are exposed brick, and huge, industrial-sized windows have a million-dollar view of New York at night. There is furniture of leather in different kinds of jewel-tones, and large, green plants and tables of dark wood. 

“You’ve designed this place?” Stiles asks, just to be sure, but he already knows Derek have. It’s Derek’s loft in Beacon Hills if Derek had actually cared about himself when he lived there. 

“Yes Stiles,” Derek says and Stiles can practically hear him roll his eyes. Stiles twists about and falls down in one of the leather couches. 

“Well colour me impressed, Sourwolf,” Stiles says and grins. Derek snorts and goes to the kitchen - open plan with the living room, of course - and opens the fridge. 

“Want another beer?” 

“Uh, _yes_ ,” Stiles says and glances out at the view. He _knew_ Derek was rich, but somehow this place really made the notion sink in. Derek is _rich-rich_. So fucking rich. 

Derek comes over with two beers and Stiles accepts one and turns his attention to Derek as he sinks down on the couch next to him. 

“I can’t believe you work as an interior designer, dude.” 

“I can’t believe you have a beard,” Derek shoots back. Stiles toss his head back and laughs and Derek grins into his beer. When Stiles calms down they both grow silent and just watch each other for a moment. Stiles hadn’t noticed in the bar, but Derek’s beard has a few streaks of silver now. 

“You look good, man,” Stiles says, and he means it. Derek does look good. He looks less angry, less weighted down by his past. If anyone deserves it it’s Derek Hale. 

Derek squirms because he’s obviously still not confident enough to take a compliment, but he doesn’t shove Stiles into the nearest wall either, so obviously he’s in a much better place now. 

“Thanks,” he says quietly. Stiles almost think that’s the end of the conversation, but then Derek clears his throat and says, equally quietly, “you too.” 

Stiles considers it for a moment, then nods. He’s in a better place too, now. He doesn’t feel like a murderer every fucking day. He doesn’t think constantly about the void inside him. Most days it hardly feels bigger than a fist rather than the ravine it used to be. 

“Yeah, I feel better,” Stiles says quietly. Derek watch him seriously. 

The moment feels almost electric, and then it passes as Derek stands up. 

“Well, guestroom is up the stairs to the left,” Derek says. Stiles watch as Derek gestures to his own bedroom and almost awkwardly flees into it. He watches after him and drinks the last of his beer. 

_‘Fuck it,’_ he thinks to himself and stands up. 

Instead of going to the stairs he goes over to Derek’s door and knocks. Derek opens the door and the surprise on his face is so easy to read that Stiles almost have to fight down a grin, but instead he squares his shoulders and angles his face to meet Derek’s. 

Derek’s just a few centimetres taller than Stiles is now, but Stiles remember a time when it felt like Derek was looming over him whenever they got close. 

Stiles watch him, then carefully steps close and press his lips against Derek’s. There’s plenty of time to pull away, and the press of lips is not forceful or demanding. It’s a question, and Derek answers it.

Derek wraps his arms around Stiles and tugs him flush against him, and with permission the kiss deepens until it’s a clash of teeth and tongue and frantic pulling at clothes to expose skin. 

Stiles doesn’t really know how he ends up there, but suddenly he falls backwards in Derek’s huge bed and Derek stares down at him, desire blatant on his face. Stiles is naked and Derek still has his jeans on. 

They’re both silent for a moment, then Stiles pops up on his elbows and gives Derek a thorough once over. He might be a little older, but his body is still fit. Fitter than healthy, Stiles’ mind supplies, but Derek’s body is also freaking hot. Stiles angles his head, looks Derek straight in the eye and smiled. 

“Take off your pants,” he says. Derek raises an eyebrow like he can’t believe Stiles attempts to boss him about, then Stiles’ smile turns to a grin when Derek carefully unbuttons his jeans and push both jeans and underwear down. 

Stiles has seen Derek’s dick before. Once he turned into an evolved werewolf and could turn all the way into wolf he kept loosing his clothes everywhere about the place. But Stiles wasn’t _looking_ then. He allows himself to look now. 

Derek’s chest is smooth in a way that tells Stiles that he probably wax his chest, but a string of dark hair travels from his bellybutton to his dick, and his dick is hardening. Stiles push himself up and reach out, carefully like Derek suddenly is a wounded animal that will run away if Stiles behaves in any way threateningly. 

It’s a weird thought because they are both dangerous, but in physical strength Derek has Stiles beat. By all accounts, Derek could do whatever he wanted with Stiles, but Stiles can’t help the thought, and he wants to be gentle. 

He wraps his fingers around Derek’s dick, which gives a little jump at the touch, and Derek gasps lightly. The sound sends shivers to Stiles’ dick, but he ignores himself and starts to carefully pump Derek’s shaft. At the same time, he angles his head up to look Derek in the face, and he’s suddenly stuck with just how gorgeous Derek is. 

Derek’s eyes are closed and his mouth a little open, and Stiles feels like that is a sign of trust if anything. Derek feels comfortable enough to close his eyes with Stiles right next to him, with Stiles’ hands on sensitive parts of his anatomy. 

That trust feels precious and makes Stiles’ chest swell pleasantly, and he realizes that the trust goes both ways. Stiles shifts on the bed, then he brings his mouth to wrap around Derek’s dick. 

Derek moans then and Stiles carefully starts to bob his head up and down. One of Derek’s hands move down and touch Stiles’ hair, and for a moment he tenses, expects some kind of force to be applied, but of course, Derek doesn’t do that. He runs his fingernails over Stiles’ scalp, gently and pleasantly and Stiles feel tingly all over because of it. He even moans himself, and Derek seems to like that because he moans again. 

Stiles sets a slow and determined pace. It’s actually something he’s copying directly from Lydia and knows from experience that being subjected to is the most delicious kind of torture, and soon Derek is almost trembling against him. 

Seriously, Stiles wonders if he should offer support somehow because Derek’s legs look like they’d collapse under the weight of him any second. Stiles reluctantly pulls away and looks at Derek. Derek cracks his eyes open and his pupils are blown wide and heavy. 

Stiles shifts back on the bed and Derek follow after him like he’s not quite aware he’s moving. Stiles holds out his arms expectantly and Derek kisses him again, this time with teeth and passion and Stiles falls backwards down on the bed and pulls Derek on top of him. 

Their dicks rub together and Derek jerks his hips against him and it’s so good Stiles’ toes feel like curling. Derek moves a hand between their bodies and wraps his fingers around the both of them at the same time. Stiles moans and lets Derek jerk them off for a while. 

He’s panting, clinging to Derek’s back, and fucking desperate. 

“Derek, please fuck me,” he manages to get out between frantic kissing. Derek pulls away, and for a second Stiles think he’ll leave, but then he realises that Derek’s reaching for lube in the bedside table. 

He doesn’t know why, but it makes him laugh, right until Derek returns and kisses him silly again. Then he feels a kind of cold, lubed up finger probe his ass. He wraps his arms around Derek’s shoulders again, but shift his body to make stretching him easier. Derek pulls away from the kiss, his finger just circling around Stiles’ anus. 

“This okay?” he asks. Stiles squirms and relaxes under Derek’s administrations. 

“Yes,” he says and groans as Derek press the finger inside. Derek stops then, so Stiles puts his hands in Derek’s hair and pulls his mouth to kiss Stiles’ neck. 

“ _So_ okay, definitely okay,” he says and squirms against Derek, so Derek begins to move his finger in and out, stretching him. 

“Oh, you’re so good,” Stiles says and clings to Derek. His years with Lydia have made him verbal in bed, and for some reason he’s feeling this desperate need to praise Derek. “God, you’re so fucking hot, I want you so bad.” 

Derek adds another finger and Stiles forgets to talk for a bit. He tries to fuck himself onto Derek’s hand just as much as Derek is trying to stretch him and he’s feeling impatient. 

“Fuck, Derek, please, I’m ready,” he says shakily. “Please, I need you.” 

Derek looks up between his eyelashes at Stiles like he’s trying to gauge how serious Stiles is about it, but Stiles is definitely one hundred per cent serious and Derek’s taking too long. 

Stiles hooks his leg around Derek’s thigh and flips them over, then he climbs on top of Derek and kisses him again, feverishly and needily. 

“Where’s the lube?” he asks and only pulls away when Derek presents the bottle to him. Stiles grins, slides down to straddle Derek’s thighs, then squirt a lot of lube directly onto Derek’s dick. 

“That’s cold,” Derek complains. Stiles grin grows wider and he wraps his hand around Derek’s length to smear the lube around. 

“I’ll warm it for you, Derek,” he purrs. He kind of wanted to call Derek baby there too but stopped himself at the last second. He knows there’s only so much he can push Derek before Derek pushes back. And maybe pushes him away. 

Derek rolls his eyes, but the eyeroll falls flat when he moans under Stiles’ work. Stiles works quickly, smears the lube around, give Derek a few strengthening jerks just for the fun of it, then he climbs on top of Derek and slides onto him. 

Besides Stiles’ insurances, two fingers are not the same as a dick, so he goes slow. It hurts a little bit, but in that fucked-up way that Stiles kind of likes and Derek puts his hands on Stiles’ hips to guide and rub soothing circles over his skin. 

He breathes through his nose and puts both hands on Derek’s chest, letting him take all of Stiles’ weight. Maybe he’s crushing him a little, but Derek’s a werewolf, he can handle Stiles’ weight on top of him. 

Derek groans as Stiles starts moving, and his hands are helpful but not forceful. Don’t try and jerk Stiles this way or that. Stiles finds that he likes that. 

“Oh, fuck, you feel so good inside me,” Stiles says, and he’s not even sure why he’s really talking, but he is. Derek is quiet, except for the appreciative sounds he makes and as the pace starts to pick up speed Derek grips him almost so tightly he’ll bruise. 

“Fuck, Derek,” Stiles mumbles. Derek suddenly flips them back over, and Stiles yelps and laughs, then the laugh gets smushed by Derek pressing their lips together and pressing his dick back into Stiles. 

Stiles moans and clings onto Derek’s shoulders. He wraps his legs around Derek’s waist which allows Derek better access. Better fucking access to Stiles’ prostate. 

“Oh, god, yeah, that’s it - fuck, you’re good,” Stiles continues blabbering between ferocious kissing. Derek decides to keep doing it, and after a few particularly brutal and awesome thrusts Stiles comes all over their stomachs and chests. 

He cries out as he does, and Derek thrusts into him a few times before Stiles feel Derek’s own jizz fill him. 

Stiles pants and keeps clinging onto Derek’s shoulders, then he laughs. Derek nuzzles away from his throat to give him a look. 

“What?” he asks. Stiles shakes his head. 

“I have never come just on a dick before,” Stiles says. Derek Hale fucking blushes and it’s delicious. He also looks strangely pleased with himself, which is adorable. 

“Oh,” Derek says, now content that Stiles’ isn’t making fun of him. He moves to pull away and Stiles let him slide out of him and settle down next to him. Stiles grins. Derek begins to pull the cover over them, then he freezes. “Um, will you stay here or - I mean…” 

Stiles grabs the cover and jerks it over the both of them, then he twists so he can press his back against Derek’s chest. 

“I’m the little spoon,” he says. Derek doesn’t move for a moment, then he settles himself into a big-spoon position. Stiles grins and makes Derek wrap his arm around him properly. 

“You know, this does require some further testing,” Stiles says thoughtfully. "Like, was this a one-off, or will I always be able to come on your dick alone?” 

Behind him, Derek scoffs, so Stiles continues. “Also, is it your technique, or is it just the magic of Hale cock?” 

“God, Stiles, shut up,” Derek gruffs. Stiles grins because besides Derek’s words Derek actually pulls him closer. He hums thoughtfully. 

“Okay, but you _will_ allow further testing, right?” he asks cheekily. Derek laughs, dark and delicious and amused besides his better judgement. 

“Sure, Stiles,” he promises.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are much appreciated!


End file.
